


Broken Toy Soldier

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, But mostly angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, PTSD, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days before Dr. John Watson left for his deployment to Afghanistan, he fell for an unusual man: aspiring consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. When John is invalided home, though, he is broken in both body and spirit and can't understand why Sherlock would still be interested in him.</p><p>Based on this prompt from MartinFreetheBooty: http://martinsdong.co.vu/post/95314580175/i-need-an-au-fic-about-john-and-sherlock-being</p><p>Now available in Russian: <br/>http://ficbook.net/readfic/3167424<br/>or<br/>http://archiveofourown.org/works/7198370</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [martinfreethebooty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinfreethebooty/gifts).



> I have not edited, which was hard for me because I really prefer to nitpick at my fics until they're "not perfect but tolerable," so please don't hesitate to (gently!) tell me if you notice a typo or a misused word.

As Dr. John Watson watched his older sister attempting to drink her way through the entire stock of the bar, he had to admit to himself that he would have preferred _not_ coming home for the weekend. Unfortunately, the higher ups in the army felt strongly that their soldiers deserved a weekend at home with their loved ones before being deployed, so John was stuck having a 'night out' with Harry... and probably a day in the next morning when she woke up hung over and miserable.

Not that John minded tying a few on every now and again, but he was going to be in Afghanistan in just over 48 hours; what was the point in traveling halfway around the world with a hangover? 

"Bloody bartender is ignoring me again," Harry said as she stumbled back to the table John was sitting at, her words slurring and her steps uneven. "Going to stop tipping if he keeps it up." 

"Actually, I was thinking maybe we should get you home," John said, making a show of checking his watch as his sister leaned heavily on his shoulder. "Didn't Clara say you had an appointment with your therapist in the morning?" 

"Oh, like _he_ does any good," Harry said, giving a mirthless laugh as she gestured with one hand towards herself, causing her blond hair to fall into her face. "Clara keeps making me go, though. But I don't think I have a problem." 

"Right, of course not," John said, standing carefully to not upset his sister's precarious balance. "But Clara would be cross if you missed it, so let's get you into a cab and on your way, okay?" 

"But, John, we're celebrating!" 

"I don't think my deployment is really a reason to celebrate," John said. 

"Then we're mourning," Harry protested, stumbling and wrapping both arms around her brother's waist as he led her from the bar and onto the busy street. It was only 10pm on a Friday night and London was still bustling with activity. 

"I can mourn on my own, thanks," John said, waving down a cab. He shoved Harry inside gently before giving her address and enough money to cover the fare to the cabbie. 

"Wait, aren't you coming?" Harry asked, blinking owlishly at him from the backseat as he went to close the door. 

"Not yet," John said. "Get home, get some rest. I'll find my own way back." 

He shut the door on Harry's protests and thumped his palm lightly on the roof of the cab before stepping back up onto the kerb. The cab pulled away and John waved, just in case Harry was looking back. 

Frankly, spending the weekend with his alcoholic sister and her wife was the last thing John had wanted to do. But it was still better than spending it with his angry, frequently abusive father in his childhood home or taking a room in a motel for the weekend. 

John shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and began walking down the pavement with no real destination in mind. He was just moving to pass the time. 

He'd been out of London for the last year, going through basic training with the army followed by his training as a combat medic, building on the knowledge he'd acquired from his years of study at Bart's. That was why it was such a surprise when he heard someone calling his name. 

"John! John Watson!" 

He turned and felt a smile lifting the corner of his mouth as he recognized Mike Stamford, an old classmate. Mike had put on a couple more pounds since the last time John had seen him, but he didn't look unhealthy; simply comfortable and well looked-after. 

"It's Mike Stamford," the man said, stepping up and offering his hand. 

"I recognize you," John said, shaking the offered hand. "How have you been?" 

"Good, good. Got married. She's been fattening me up," Mike said, patting the gentle swell of his stomach. "I heard you'd enlisted?" 

"Yeah. I'm actually deploying in a couple of days." 

"Deploying? Where to?" Mike asked, looking impressed. 

"Afghanistan." 

"Good lord, what a mess that all is. You'll sort it out, though." 

"Single-handedly," John agreed, giving a quick self-deprecating laugh. 

"Look, I was heading out to meet an acquaintance for a drink, if you'd like to come along," Mike said, smiling invitingly. 

"Oh, I couldn't -" John began, but Mike was shaking his head. 

"Really, it would be nice to catch up with you. And you might like meeting this fellow: his name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's bright as anyone I've ever met. He's a bit rude at times, but absolutely brilliant." 

John hesitated, shuffling his shoes on the pavement for a moment. He didn't have anywhere else to be at the moment; he didn't really want to go back to Harry and Clara's home and listen to the inevitable fight that would break out when Clara saw just how drunk her wife was. But he likewise didn't really relish the idea of wandering around the streets of London for the next couple of hours. 

"Yeah, all right," John said. "Why not?" 

They ended up at a restaurant a few blocks over, Mike explaining that Sherlock didn't frequent bars. "Too noisy, he says. Keeps him from being able to think. Believe me when I say nothing is as important to him as being able to think," and he laughed, obviously enjoying himself immensely at having John along. 

The restaurant wasn't horribly busy and John scanned the occupied tables as he trailed behind Mike. A few people who were obviously on dates, a couple of older men sipping steaming cups of tea or coffee, and one absolutely gorgeous bloke with dark curly hair sitting alone at a booth and taking notes in a small notebook. 

John expected Mike to veer towards one of the older men sitting alone; with a name like 'Sherlock,' Mike's friend had to be ancient. But Mike moved unerringly towards the good-looking younger man with the notebook. 

"Sherlock! Sorry I'm a bit late. I ran into an old friend and invited him along. I knew you'd mind, but I think the two of you will get along," Mike said, smiling jovially as he settled himself into the booth opposite Sherlock, scooting close to the wall to leave room for John to slide in. 

Sherlock shut his notebook with a snap, his brow furrowing as he looked up at Mike. He turned slowly to look at John, and John found himself staring into two slightly slanted, pale eyes. 

"John Watson," John said, offering his hand. The other man's eyes narrowed slightly, skimming over John's face, body, the offered hand, and then finally back up to his face again. 

"Military," Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble that John almost felt in the soles of his feet. "Deploying soon. Currently staying with family, but unwillingly." 

"I... sorry, what? How did you know any of that?" John glanced over at Mike, noting the growing smile on the other man's face. "Did you tell him about me?" 

"No," Mike said, his voice amused. 

"Then how did he...?" 

"Your haircut and the way you hold yourself say 'military.' There's a freshness to you that men who've been deployed don't have, so this will be your first deployment. Your clothes are nice but comfortable; whoever you're staying with, you don't feel the need to dress up for them. That suggests that it's family rather than a lover. However, if it was family you enjoyed being around, you would be there rather than going out for drinks with a man you haven't seen since university and a complete stranger, so you're staying with your family unwillingly." 

"Amazing," John said, giving his head a little shake. 

Sherlock blinked, tipping his head very slightly as if surprised by John's word. 

"What?" 

"That was amazing." John glanced down at his clothes and then back up at Sherlock. "You got all of that from my clothes and haircut?" 

"It's all fairly obvious to anyone who actually pays attention," Sherlock said. "Most people don't see anything beyond the tips of their noses." 

John didn't know what to say to that, so he slid into the booth next to Mike, still staring with fascination at the man seated across from him. But Sherlock was turning his attention to Mike, his voice curious as he asked, "Has the bank stopped bothering you?" 

"Ever since you proved that there was no way I could have been in the United States when all the purchases were made," Mike said, looking incredibly pleased. "Both Katie and I have been enjoying the last few weeks of silence. I never thought I'd be so glad to not hear my mobile ringing." 

"Good," Sherlock said, a pleased look settling on his face. He glanced at John surreptitiously, his mercurial eyes narrowing once more as he took in the other man. "Are you in town long?" 

"Just the weekend," John said, finding that he almost regretted that fact. He'd been eager to get going just hours before, wishing he could be anywhere but London with his alcoholic sister. 

"Shame," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawing down slightly. 

"Oh, I don't know. I've been gone for the last year, training... not a lot to do now that I'm back." 

"How do you feel about the violin? I play sometimes when I'm thinking." 

"Oh. Uh." John glanced over at Mike for a hint on what he was supposed to do, but Mike just shrugged at him, still smiling faintly. "I like the violin." 

"Would you be interested in coming by my flat and hearing some compositions? Since you're only in town for the weekend and since you don't have any pressing engagements, you may as well enjoy an impromptu concert," Sherlock said, and his eyes slid away from John as he posed the question, staring at the rather ugly landscape that was hanging on the wall next to the booth. 

"You mean like tomorrow?" John asked. 

"I was thinking more like now," Sherlock admitted, still staring at the landscape. John glanced at the painting as well, wondering what Sherlock was finding so engrossing; a few blobby trees and one lopsided mountain didn't seem that interesting to John. 

"Oh," John said, hesitating. "But Mike -" 

"Go on," Mike said. "We were just meeting for a quick chat. Katie will be expecting me home soon." 

John pursed his lips. He didn't know anything about Sherlock Holmes, other than the fact that the man had apparently helped Mike with some difficulties with his bank and that he was incredibly good at picking out details in people. John _did_ enjoy violin music and always had, despite the fact that his family thought any kind of classical music was 'posh shite' and had made no effort at hiding their disdain any time John listened to it. Hearing a few original violin compositions wouldn't bother John at all, and watching someone as easy on the eyes as Sherlock play the violin wouldn't hurt, either. 

"Yeah, sure," John said. "Like you said, what else do I have to do tonight?" 

Sherlock slid from the booth, reaching out to grab a heavy wool Belstaff from the seat as he did so. John hadn't bothered taking his jacket off so he slid out to join the taller man, taking a quick, admiring glance at Sherlock's slim, fit body beneath his button-up shirt and dark jeans before the Belstaff obscured it. He heard Mike sliding out behind him and turned to offer his hand. 

"See you around, John. Try not to get blown up," Mike suggested. 

"Good seeing you again," John said, smiling quickly at the other man. 

"Sherlock. Until next time." Mike gave the tall man a quick nod and then trundled away, still wearing the same self-satisfied smile that had been on his face practically since they arrived at the restaurant. 

"My flat is some distance away. We'll need to take a cab, and I should warn you that it isn't in the best part of town. I'm trying to scrape together a consulting detective business, but work has been slow. If I could only convince the police to work with me... but they won't work with amateurs." 

"But you'd be amazing at police work," John burst out, unable to stop himself. "I mean, you could do the work of an entire CSI with one look." 

A puzzled smile touched Sherlock's face as he stared at the shorter man. John realized he sounded like some sort of fawning pre-teen and he cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. 

"Sorry. I mean... you're so observant, I can't understand why the police wouldn't work with you." 

"They will, eventually," Sherlock said, sounding sure of himself. "I just need a few more successful cases to convince them I'm worth their time. But I'm not working tonight. Come along, John." 

Sherlock strode towards the front door of the restaurant and John trailed after him, wondering what he was getting himself in to but thoroughly enjoying the experience. 

The cab ride was interesting. John asked Sherlock what sort of detective work he'd done in the past and Sherlock spent twenty minutes detailing past cases and the clues he'd used to break them. By the time the cab pulled up next to a rundown row of flats, John was convinced that Sherlock was a proper genius. He was surprised that someone as clever as Sherlock was willingly spending time with John who, while moderately good at medical things, was really no more intelligent than any other Englishman. 

_'Doesn't matter,'_ John decided. _'It's making the night really interesting, and I'm not going to question my luck.'_

Sherlock's flat was on the fourth storey, and by the time they'd climbed all the flights of stairs, John was winded. He wondered briefly why the military didn't employ more stair-climbing in their training exercises and then Sherlock was flinging his front door open and stepping through, gesturing for John to follow him. 

The flat was stuffed with piles of books and papers. John could see through to the kitchen and the table was completely taken up by an old battered microscope, a pile of slides, and an old desktop computer tower and monitor. 

Sherlock tossed his coat onto a dark grey leather sofa just inside the door before turning to look at John. 

"You have a lot of stuff," John observed, glancing around as he caught his breath from the experience of trotting up four flights of stairs after a longer-legged man. 

"Helps keep me occupied," Sherlock offered. "I absolutely hate being bored. There is nothing in the world I find as detestable as having nothing to do." 

"I can see how someone as brilliant as you would get bored easily," John said, and a faint flush touched Sherlock's face before he spun away, opening a cupboard on the wall to draw out two glasses and a decanter of what looked like whiskey. 

"Would you like a drink before I play?" he offered. 

"Oh. Sure," John said, stepping forward as Sherlock poured a generous finger of whiskey into one of the glasses, setting the second glass and decanter down on the squat coffee table near the sofa. Before rising, he scooped a violin and bow off the coffee table. 

John sat down on the sofa, drink in hand, to enjoy the show. 

And a show it was. The music was fantastic but it was Sherlock himself that really made it enjoyable. John was able to stare unashamedly while the tall man played, his eyes shut as he swayed softly to the music he pulled from the instrument. Perhaps it was the effect of the passably tolerable whiskey, but John could feel the stirrings of interest as he watched the unusual man play. 

John finished his glass and set it down on the coffee table with a soft click. Sherlock's eyes opened and he stopped playing. 

"Let me refill that," he offered, shifting both violin and bow to one hand and grabbing the decanter with the other. 

"I don't... well, all right," John said, relenting. He didn't mind a little bit of a buzz. "But only if you have one, as well." 

Sherlock poured himself a finger and drank it in one straight gulp, making John raise his eyebrows in surprise. Sherlock noticed, of course, and shook his head faintly. "It is hardly the strongest substance I've consumed." 

"Bit of a drinker?" John asked, taking a swallow from his own glass as he thought of his sister and the way she tossed alcohol back like it was water. 

"Years ago," Sherlock said, gesturing dismissively with his free hand. "I turned to much stronger substances when alcohol proved too deleterious to my thought process. I spent several years trying a variety of illegal drugs, trying to find one that blurred the lines without completely erasing them. I nearly killed myself enough times that I thought my brother was going to take it upon himself to finish the task for me." 

"Jesus," John whispered, leaning back against the sofa, stunned by how blithely Sherlock spoke about a nearly fatal drug habit. 

"I've been clean for over a year," Sherlock said. "Cases are better than any drug. As I said, I hate being bored and several street drugs are like long, drawn-out episodes of boredom of which you can't break free. Tedious." 

John swallowed the rest of his drink in one burning gulp. He was even more impressed with Sherlock; breaking free of a serious drug habit took a lot of determination. Brilliant, gorgeous, talented, determined... John found himself wishing that he wasn't leaving in two days. He could have happily occupied himself for months getting to know Sherlock Holmes. 

"You're amazing," John said, voicing his thoughts without meaning to. He glanced down at his empty glass, pursing his lips as he realized how relaxed he felt. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking. 

Sherlock was staring at him thoughtfully and John could see a flush on the taller man's cheeks again. There was something in the way Sherlock was looking at him, something that made John want to be more clear-headed so he could analyze it. The look seemed almost... interested? 

"Are you seeing anyone?" John blurted, and quickly tried to back peddle to make the incredibly awkward question less so. "I mean, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome, be here if your girlfriend shows up." 

"Girlfriend... no, not really my area," Sherlock said, face twisting faintly at the admission. 

"Oh, right... boyfriend, then?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes ticked to him and John hastened to reassure the other man that he wasn't bothered by it. "Which is fine, by the way." 

"I _know_ it's fine," Sherlock said, setting his violin and bow down on the coffee table again. 

"So, you've got a boyfriend then?" John asked, hoping that there was a 'no' forthcoming. Sherlock seemed interested, unless John was horribly mistaken. John was _definitely_ interested. This weekend home could be very nice, if Sherlock was willing. 

"No," Sherlock admitted, his eyes downcast, seemingly very interested in the violin on the coffee table. 

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me," John said, wondering how unsubtle he needed to be to get his interest across. He cleared his throat, giving a little smile as he watched Sherlock. "Fine. Good." 

John rose from the sofa, stepping around the edge of the coffee table to stand close to Sherlock. He was not quite invading the other man's personal space, but Sherlock looked up with eyes wide and startled and John raised both hands in an 'I mean no harm' gesture. 

"Look, I'm not going to... if you aren't interested, say the word. I won't try anything if you don't want... I just thought that you seemed interested," John said, speaking quickly. Had he misinterpreted Sherlock's looks? 

"No, I'm... interested," Sherlock admitted, looking torn. He clenched his fists for a moment, looking as if he were building himself up. "I am interested. In you." 

"Well, then," John said, a smile slowly pulling his lips up. He stepped closer, his body almost touching Sherlock's as he deliberately invaded the other man's personal space. "I'm definitely interested in you, as well." John pushed up onto his toes as he moved in for a kiss, something he hadn't had to do in years, reaching out with a single hand to touch lightly against Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock stayed still and John closed the distance, feathering his lips against the other man's. There was a half-second pause and Sherlock began to kiss him back, the movements slow and timid at first, but quickly building in intensity. John's hand closed on Sherlock's forearm and Sherlock's free hand came up to rest lightly on John's lower back, holding but not pressing as they deepened the kiss slowly. 

John opened his mouth, flicking his tongue against Sherlock's lower lip, and the other man sighed softly, his mouth opening in invitation. John's tongue dipped and retreated, teasing against Sherlock's until the taller man made a soft, desperate noise and pressed his body flush to John's, twisting his head to delve into John's mouth with his own tongue, demanding. 

John made an appreciate noise low in his throat as he slid both arms around Sherlock's slim waist. The alcohol had made his head pleasantly floaty and his inhibitions were almost nonexistent; his hands slid down Sherlock's lower back to slide over his arse. 

Sherlock broke the kiss and John wondered if he'd moved too quickly, but then Sherlock's mouth was on his neck, kissing and biting, and John squeezed Sherlock's arse with both hands as he groaned in pleasure. 

Their mutual arousal was ratcheting up with each enthusiastic kiss, each nibble on exposed skin, each frantic slide of palm across clothing. John was unsurprised when Sherlock's hands slid underneath the edge of his jumper, long fingers splaying against the thin cotton of John's vest. John reciprocated by tugging Sherlock's button-up free of his jeans, John's hands sliding underneath it to stroke across the taut muscles of Sherlock's belly, the skin deliciously hot under John's palms. 

They both became frustrated with the shirts at almost the same instant. There was a bit of a scramble as Sherlock tried to pull John's jumper and vest off at the same time that John was unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, but they both managed after several frustrated minutes. They fell together again, their bare chests pressing as they kissed each other hungrily. John could feel Sherlock's erection pressing against him and knew that Sherlock could almost certainly feel his as well. 

"Bed?" John asked, wondering if that was where this was heading and somewhat hoping that it was. He hadn't had many first dates that ended in sex... but this wasn't really a first date, was it? 

"There," Sherlock responded, nodding toward a closed door across the room. John hooked his fingers in the belt loops of Sherlock's jeans, tugging him toward the door as he walked backwards across the room. Sherlock didn't resist, dipping his head to nuzzle and lick at John's collarbones. 

The bedroom was as pristine as the front room had been messy. The only thing that wasn't perfectly arranged was the bed, the sheets ruffled and tossed to one side. John led Sherlock over to the bed and gently pressed him to sit on the edge of the mattress before stepping close, sliding between Sherlock's knees. He cupped the other man's face in his palms, leaning down to kiss eagerly at Sherlock's mouth, his tongue delving as he slid his hands slowly from Sherlock's jaw down the sides of his neck and to his chest. John pinched Sherlock's nipples as he devoured the other man's mouth, tweaking the tiny buds until they puckered and hardened. 

Sherlock's hands moved to John's waist, his long fingers sliding into the top of John's trousers. Sherlock drew his fingers slowly from John's hips towards his stomach, teasing him with how near they were to John's prick. John broke the kiss, moaning softly as Sherlock's fingers finally met at the front of John's body, the very tips of them brushing against the head of his prick briefly. 

"What would you like me to do?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and thrumming. He was looking up at John through heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks still flushed with wanting. 

"Don't suppose you have condoms?" John asked, his own voice unsteady. 

"No," Sherlock admitted, mouth twisting a bit. 

"I'll think about it," John said, gently pressing against Sherlock's chest. "Lay back." 

Sherlock fell back onto the bed, his legs still dangling off the edge of the mattress, and John crawled up next to him, leaning his face down to taste the puckered nipple nearest him. He swirled his tongue over it as he thought about the possible ways to finish their night. He trailed kisses down Sherlock's chest and stomach, dipping his tongue into Sherlock's navel as he contemplated ways to get them both off. He undid the button and pulled down the zip on Sherlock's jeans, parting the material to nuzzle his nose against Sherlock's straining erection as he came to a decision. 

"Scoot up the bed," John said, taking hold of Sherlock's jeans. The other man complied, sliding up the bed as John slid his jeans down and off. He removed his own trousers, kicking them off to join Sherlock's jeans next to the bed, before climbing up to join Sherlock. 

"So, what are we going to do?" Sherlock asked, staring at John with open longing. It made John's breath catch; that was the look of someone who wanted him enough to acquiesce to almost anything. He hadn't expected to see a look like that directed at him that evening, but Sherlock seemed full of surprises. 

"This," John said, carefully straddling Sherlock. They were both still in their pants, but when John leaned forward to brace his hands on either side of Sherlock's chest, he could feel Sherlock's hard cock alongside his. He began to make small, careful thrusts against the other man, feeling the slide and stroke of their cocks against one another. Sherlock made a strained noise, his hands coming up to John's hips and his eyes slowly rolling shut at the sensation, and then he began thrusting back, his rhythm complementing John's. 

John pressed down towards Sherlock, kissing the other man as they thrust and rubbed. They were both panting as their orgasms built, the kisses becoming frantic and uncoordinated. And then Sherlock stiffened, his hands clenching on John's hips as his mouth dropped open in a moan. John watched with open admiration, feeling a touch of pride at having gotten him off so thoroughly, and then he felt his own orgasm building and he shut his eyes, thrusting against Sherlock, his breath turning to gasps as he came in a shuddering rush. 

When it was over, he lowered himself carefully to Sherlock's chest, pressing a kiss to the sweat-dampened skin of his collarbone before rolling onto the bed next to him, throwing an arm over his forehead as he waited for his breathing to slow. 

John was still basking in the afterglow of a good orgasm when Sherlock rolled towards him, taking a breath as if he were going to speak. When no words came, John turned his head, looking at the other man curiously. Sherlock looked conflicted and John felt a stab of panic; was Sherlock trying to figure out how to kick him out? 

"Do you need me to go?" John asked, deciding to cut right to the point. 

"I was actually going to ask if you'd like to stay," Sherlock said, his eyes flicking to John's face and then away. 

Slowly, John pushed himself up onto one elbow, staring at Sherlock as a soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He reached out with his free hand, sliding his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock looked up at him, surprise on his face. 

"I'm happy to stay," John said. "I'm happy to stay until I leave for Afghanistan, honestly." 

"Then stay," Sherlock said, sliding across the bed until he was pressed full length to John's body, looking up at the other man with a contented expression. "Stay as long as you can." 

* * * * *

The memory of the weekend kept John going for months. He watched men die in front of him, sometimes even when he was scrambling to try and staunch the flow of blood. He spent hours not knowing if his next breath would be his last, listening to the whistle of bullets and mortars going past him. There were long stretches where the only thing that kept John putting one aching foot in front of the other was the knowledge that the final words Sherlock had said to him were "Come back to me." 

When he was able, John wrote to Sherlock. Sherlock had said he was rubbish at writing letters, but John received three during the length of his deployment. All three were short, variations on a theme: 

_Dear John,_

_I think I've found a DI in NSY willing to work with me._

_I find I miss you constantly. Come back to me._

_\- SH_

_Dear John,_

_Business is picking up. The Work is all that sustains me in your absence._

_Come back to me._

_\- SH_

_Dear John,_

_Landlord is kicking me out, but I think I've secured a new flat. Old client of mine is a landlady now and is giving me a good deal. 221B Baker Street._

_You'll move in once you're home. Come back to me._

_\- SH_

John kept all three letters folded and tucked inside his helmet. When there were stretches of peace and the bullets stopped flying and men stopped dying, John would take them out to reread them, even though he had all three memorized. He wanted nothing so much as to return to London; he loved the excitement of battle when it was happening, despite the way it tangled with terror in his head, but in the quiet moments between battles all John could think about was Sherlock deducing the secrets out of people passing on the streets or Sherlock playing the violin or Sherlock tangled in the sheets of his bed and smiling up at John with a lazy, satisfied expression. 

John was thinking of Sherlock when he heard the first explosion. They'd called a halt for a rest, trying to relax in the overwhelming heat while stretched out against the baking sand, and John had been remembering the way the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck twisted. Then an explosion rocked them, throwing sand and rocks across John as he ducked instinctively, throwing an arm up to protect his face. 

The bullets started flying and John heard shrieks as the projectiles met their marks. He scrambled to his feet; he had wounded to attend to. And then a bullet found _him_ , and John was one of the screaming men laying on the baking sand. 

  
* * * * *

John had not told Sherlock when he would be home. He hadn't wanted to see Sherlock at the airport, those sharp eyes picking John apart and seeing all the damage that his deployment had done, deducing his new flaws in front of crowds of strangers. 

He had caught a cab to the address Sherlock had sent him in one of his letters, choosing to present himself to Sherlock in the privacy of Sherlock's flat. It would be easier that way. 

John had to accept help from the cabbie when he tried to get out of the cab. His leg ached enough to make him clumsy and the bullet wound in his shoulder was still healing, making that arm almost useless on his bad days. The cabbie had unloaded John's single case from the boot, asking if John would need help getting it upstairs, but John had declined. He'd paid the cabbie and then stayed standing on the pavement, watching the man drive off and delaying the inevitable. 

Finally, though, he took a deep breath and turned to face the flat, gripping the handle of the case tight enough to make it creak. He limped forward, leaning heavily onto his cane, and set the case down by the front steps. He was raising his hand to knock when the door was flung open and someone leapt out, colliding with John. 

"Sorry, I -" a deep voice began to say, but the words cut off abruptly as the hands on John's upper arms, which had been solicitous, gripped tightly enough to hurt. "...John?" 

John looked up into Sherlock's face, taking in the wide eyes, the slightly open mouth, the absolute shock painted across the familiar, gorgeous features before Sherlock's arms were around him, holding painfully tight. John grunted, the wound in his shoulder smarting, but he wrapped his free arm around Sherlock and hugged back. 

"I didn't realize... you didn't phone. You have a cane? No, wait, come inside." The words rattled out of Sherlock rapidly; John had definitely surprised him then. "Is this your case? I'll get it. Come in, come on." 

John moved up the steps slowly, trying very hard not to limp. He had thought he would be okay once he could get back to Sherlock; instead, he felt ashamed of himself. Here he was, unable to walk without a cane and unable to even hug Sherlock back properly. He was a caricature of the solider home from war. 

"We're up on the second storey," Sherlock explained, already halfway up the flight of stairs before he looked back at John. "Oh. Do you... hang on." Sherlock leapt up the remaining stairs, setting John's case on the landing, before tripping nimbly back down to John's side. 

John heard a door opening and turned automatically, taking in the older lady stepping out of the first floor flat. 

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, a faint proud smile touching his face. "This is Dr. John Watson." 

"Dr. Watson!" Mrs. Hudson said, real pleasure in her voice as she stepped forward. "Sherlock's told me so many nice things about you." 

"How do?" John asked, holding himself tight. He hadn't wanted to be around other people just yet, had wanted to get through the awkwardness of Sherlock taking in his injuries in private. 

"Have you seen the flat yet?" Mrs. Hudson asked. 

"We were just going up," Sherlock explained, and Mrs. Hudson nodded. 

"I'll make you some tea; it'll make it feel more like home." She bustled back into her own flat and John turned to look again at the stairs waiting for him. 

John cleared his throat, feeling an ashamed flush heating his cheeks as Sherlock came around to the side that John held his cane on, solicitously wrapping his arms around John's chest and letting John lean his weight against Sherlock's body. They mounted the stairs like that, moving slowly, John's face burning hotter with every step. When they finally reached the landing, Sherlock slipped away from John to open the door, stepping back with an eager expression. 

"This is it. This is our flat. Go in." 

John limped into the sitting room slowly, turning to take it in. It amazed him; in the eighteen months since he'd been gone, Sherlock had somehow managed to acquire even more _stuff_. This flat was easily twice as large as the one Sherlock had been in before, and yet it was absolutely stuffed with furniture and books and... 

"Is that a skull?" John asked, pointing at the white orb on the mantle place. 

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said, stepping over to lift it down. "Well, I say 'friend'..." 

John heard steps on the stairs leading to the flat and turned as Mrs. Hudson stepped into the sitting room with a tea tray in her hands. 

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" she asked, setting the tea tray down on a squat coffee table John recognized. So, the coffee table had made the move to the new flat. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms." 

"Why would we need two bedrooms?" Sherlock asked, looking puzzled, and Mrs. Hudson gave him an indulgent smile. 

"That's what I thought." She turned away from him to gather an old tea cup and saucer off a table pushing against the sitting room wall before bustling over to the kitchen, tidying up automatically. 

John limped slowly over to a pair of armchairs near the fireplace as Sherlock settled the skull back on the mantle. John dropped into the nearer of the chairs, a red cloth upholstered one, relieved to take his weight off his leg. It was a struggle not to stare at Sherlock; John wanted to take in the other man and at the same time, he didn't want to see Sherlock picking him apart. 

But Sherlock sat in the black leather armchair opposite John's and John had to look up, meeting his eyes for a moment. 

"I'm glad you came back to me," Sherlock said, his voice soft. A small smile lifted his lips for a moment. "Why didn't you phone to tell me you were coming?" 

John cleared his throat, leaning his cane against the side of the armchair, looking away from Sherlock. Finally, though, he stared straight into the other man's eyes and admitted, "I didn't want to tell you I'd been invalided home." 

"Why should that matter?" 

"Look at me!" John said, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper; Mrs. Hudson was still puttering around in the kitchen at his back. "I've got a hole through my shoulder and I can't walk without a cane. I'm like a bloody broken toy soldier that no one has bothered to toss in the rubbish bin yet." 

Sherlock's brow furrowed with confusion as he took in John's words, but before he could reply, Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the kitchen. 

"Let me know if you need anything else," she said. "Don't let your tea get cold. It was nice meeting you, Dr. Watson." 

She pulled the door shut behind her as she went, leaving John and Sherlock alone. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes and then Sherlock leaned out, resting his fingertips very lightly on John's knee. 

"I don't care that you were invalided home. I'm just glad you're home." 

John smiled sadly at the other man, not believing a single word. 


	2. Chapter 2

The stretch of desert that John's squad was marching through was absolutely barren, only a few pitiful scrub bushes poking through the ground here and there. There were some parts of Afghanistan that were made up of more rocks than sand, but this was not one of them. When the bullets started hammering down on them, there was nowhere to hide except under the bodies of men that had been your friends and brothers hours before. John was screaming in horror, using Cunnigham's empty shell to prevent the seemingly endless stream of bullets from tearing into him, trying not to remember how Cunningham had been showing John photos of his newborn daughter the day before.

"Watson! Medic!" 

John tried to crawl towards the summons, gripping tight to Cunningham's belt with one hand and dragging the man's body as he moved, but Cunningham's dead weight was too much to manage with only one hand. John was going to have to try to crouch low, run, and hope that he made it without being hit. 

He peeked his head up, taking in the position of the man calling his name. He pulled his knees under him, preparing to spring up into a crouch and move when the ground between him and the man waving him over exploded, throwing sand and body parts into his face in a thick, gagging wave. 

Cunningham's body was thrown with John and what had once been a shield now became a weight holding John's face down. His arms were pinned at his sides and Cunnigham's corpse was slowly forcing his face deeper into the hot sand. John was screaming but he couldn't hear his own voice thanks to the explosion, his desperate shouts merely a vibration in his head. He was going to die, buried under a corpse. He was going to - 

_"John!"_

His body bucked and he lashed out frantically, trying to push away from the sand and propel Cunningham's body off of his back. He had hooked his fingers into claws, raking at the sand beneath him as he gasped in a desperate breath and shrieked for help, his voice hopeless. 

"John, stop it! John! _Wake up, John!_ " 

He knew that voice. Sherlock? Why was Sherlock in Afghanistan? 

But slowly, the realization washed over John that he wasn't in Afghanistan, not anymore. He was in an unfamiliar bedroom, his forearms held painfully tight in Sherlock's hands. The only light in the room was what filtered in from the windows but it was enough for John to take in his surroundings and to recognize that he was no longer on the battlefield. 

He was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating. His entire body was tightened to the point of pain, his muscles desperate for action. John began forcing himself to relax, holding his breath for several seconds until he no longer felt quite so frantic. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, his voice rough. His throat hurt; had he actually been screaming or had that only been a part of his nightmare? 

"Are you awake?" Sherlock asked, his tight grip on John's forearms slackening slightly. 

"Yeah. I was dreaming." 

"Apparently," Sherlock said, his tone dry as he leaned over to switch on the lamp on his side of the bed. When he turned back, John felt a wave of shame wash over him. There were deep scratches across Sherlock's bare chest and throat and a rising welt on one high cheekbone. 

"Did I do...?" John gestured towards the injuries and Sherlock waved one graceful hand dismissively. 

"It doesn't matter. Were you dreaming of being back in battle?" 

"Yeah," John said, tensing up again as the memories washed over him. He felt his throat closing until he was almost choking on echoes of horror from that awful day. He had survived that particular onslaught unhurt, but many of his friends had ended their tours with their blood soaking into the hot, thirsty sand. His hands were clenching in the bedsheets, twisting at them as he fought against the memories that tried to overwhelm him. 

Sherlock scooted closer, reaching towards John and then hesitating before drawing his hand back. Other than the brief hug on the front step of the flat, they had barely touched since John had arrived. Sherlock seemed much more reserved than John's memories of the man from eighteen months before. Of course, John himself was a much different man from the bright-eyed bloke who had spent a weekend curled up in a squalid flat, passing the time with bouts of love-making and leisurely conversations exploring the depths of Sherlock's mind. 

John both envied and despised the man that he had been then. How innocent he had been, laughing on the couch with Sherlock as they ate takeaway out of Styrofoam containers and cuddled naked under a blanket, their legs tangled together. And now they were laying on opposite sides of the bed, keeping a careful gap between them until John's nightmares caused him to breach it and attack his partner. 

"I don't think I should sleep in here," John said, tossing the blankets off of himself and reaching for the cane propped against the nightstand on his side of the bed. 

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, sliding across the bed after John as the other man limped away from the bed. 

"Look at yourself!" John said angrily, gesturing with his free hand. "Look at what I did to you, Sherlock. Maybe the scratches aren't that bad, but your cheek is going to swell. You might even get a black eye. And for what? For some bad dreams? It's not worth it." 

"John, wait." Sherlock was out of the bed now, coming after John. He crossed the bedroom in a few long strides, his expression determined. He grabbed John's left shoulder and John hissed in a pained breath as Sherlock put pressure on the still-tender wound there. Sherlock realized immediately the mistake he'd made and jerked his hand back, grimacing. 

"We can't even _touch_ without hurting each other," John said, his voice low and bitter. "Just go back to bed. I can sleep on the sofa." 

"I'm..." Sherlock trailed off and John stared at him for a moment, daring him to say something else. When several seconds of silence had passed, John gave a single, brisk nod. 

"Okay then," John said, and limped out of the room. 

  
* * * * *

John managed to doze on the sofa for a few hours, but deeper sleep eluded him. As comfortable as the sofa was for sitting on, it was rubbish for sleeping on and his shoulder was one giant mass of pain by the time the windows in the sitting room began lightening from black to dark navy in the wee hours of the morning. 

John clumped over to the red cloth-upholstered armchair he'd sat in the day before and fell back into it once more, twirling his cane slowly with one hand as he watched the windows growing lighter by degrees, dawn creeping over the city. 

When the sun was fully up and the sitting room was bathed in golden light, John pushed himself to his feet to go back to the bedroom and dig out some clothes for the day. He was surprised to see Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking much the same as he had when John had left in the middle of the night. 

"Didn't you sleep?" John asked, pausing at the threshold of the bedroom, taking in Sherlock's rumpled curls and the way the tall man sat solid and still as if he could sit like that forever without moving. 

"Did you?" Sherlock returned, and John's mouth twitched into a grim smile. 

"I thought I should go out looking for a job today. If we're going to be sharing this flat, I should be paying my way," John said, moving slowly over to his battered case. He'd set it on a chair beside Sherlock's wardrobe the day before and hadn't bothered to unpack it. He flipped it open and pulled out a clean button-up shirt and a pair of trousers, digging past other neatly folded clothes to find clean pants and socks. 

"There's no rush," Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson doesn't charge nearly as much as the flat is worth and the cases from New Scotland Yard have been holding steady recently." 

"I like to keep busy," John said tersely, tugging off the plain white undershirt he'd slept in. Sherlock's eyes slid to the puckered scar on John's shoulder, the wound still a violent and angry red despite it being nearly a month old. John tried not to hunch his shoulders under Sherlock's gaze; let him look his fill now and get it out of the way. 

"I'm familiar with that sentiment," Sherlock said, his voice soft, and John was dragged back to that first night and Sherlock's explanation for the amount of stuff he kept packed into his tiny flat: _"I absolutely hate being bored. There is nothing in the world I find as detestable as having nothing to do."_

A faint smile brushed across John's mouth and he glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, his expression softening for a moment. The look that swept over Sherlock's face at the tiny smile on John's mouth was like a balm to John's soul. Eagerness and joy made the taller man's face absolutely light up and for a moment, John forgot how broken he was as he looked at the gorgeous, brilliant man sitting across the bedroom and staring at John as if he were everything Sherlock had ever asked for. 

And then John's shoulder gave a faint twinge of complaint and John remembered that he was nothing but a soldier who'd been invalided home while Sherlock was a consulting detective who helped New Scotland Yard for the thrill of it, and the smile melted off John's face. 

John slid into his clean clothes quickly, not looking back at Sherlock again until he had finished getting dressed and put his dirty nightclothes into a hamper near the wardrobe. He cleared his throat and then pulled his shoulders back, turning to face Sherlock who had not moved from his perch on the edge of the bed, keeping absolutely still as he watched John. 

"Breakfast?" John asked, his tone perfunctory. 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together slightly but he rose from the bed and moved past John, opening the wardrobe to jerk a dressing gown down from a hanger, sliding into it as he left the bedroom. 

John followed at a slower pace, stopping once he reached the sitting room. Sherlock was moving around the kitchen, making tea and boiling water for eggs, obviously not in need of any help. John let his eyes wander the sitting room before he noticed Sherlock's laptop on the table pushed against the far wall between the two sitting room windows. 

"Mind if I use your laptop to look up clinics near the flat?" John asked. 

"You were a trained surgeon before you joined the military," Sherlock said, looking up from the carton of eggs in his hands. "Shouldn't you be applying at hospitals?" 

John's lips pressed and his nostrils flared. Sherlock had seen the limp - it was hard to miss - and he'd seen the bullet wound in John's shoulder. It was time to lay all the damage out. 

"I have an intermittent tremor in my right hand," John admitted. "The psychiatrist that was seeing me before I came back to London said it was probably stress related, just another PTSD symptom. But, since I can't predict when it's going to happen, I'm not fit to be a surgeon anymore." John tipped his head back, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock. "So, there you go. No hospital would have me. I'm reduced to doing GP work, if I can find a clinic that will hire a retired army doctor." 

Sherlock's brow was furrowed by the end of John's speech. He opened his mouth for a moment and then shut it, obviously at a loss for what to say. What was there to say when someone told you they were basically useless, after all? 

"So, can I use your laptop or not?" 

"Yes. Go right ahead," Sherlock said, turning back to the carton in his hands and dropping four eggs into the pot of water he had set on the stove. 

John made his way slowly to the other side of the sitting room, opening the laptop before settling himself into a chair. By the time the eggs had boiled and the tea was ready, he had a list of four possible clinics to take his resume to, as soon as he managed to type one up. 

"I had planned to meet with Lestrade yesterday afternoon but your arrival threw off my schedule. Would you like to come along with me this morning?" 

"Um... who's Lestrade?" John asked before taking a sip of his tea. 

"The Detective Inspector who lets me help on his cases," Sherlock explained. "He's asked me to look at a few crime scene photos. I keep telling him that I would be able to find so much more if he'd just let me into the crime scenes themselves, but he says he only has so much sway and if he starts annoying the CSIs, he'll never hear the end of it." 

"You're going to NSY to look at crime scene photographs?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "I think I'll pass. I'd rather type up a resume and try to shop myself out to the clinics I've found nearby." 

A brief flash of disappointment touched Sherlock's face and then his expression became carefully neutral as he nodded. "As you like." 

That was the end of their breakfast conversation. John had kept the laptop open so he could laboriously type up his resume and Sherlock plucked a book from one of the shelves lining one wall and seemed to be thoroughly engrossed. If John had been paying a little more attention, though, he would have noticed that as much as Sherlock seemed to be focused on the book in his hand, he never turned a page. 

Sherlock left before John, sweeping his Belstaff off a coat rack next to the sitting room door and tying a dark blue scarf around his neck before walking back over to John. He hesitated, fiddling with a pair of dark leather gloves in his hands as he stared down at the back of John's head. Finally, though, he touched one hand lightly to John's right shoulder, carefully avoiding his wounded side that time. John held carefully still, enjoying the warmth of Sherlock's hand through the cotton of his shirt but afraid of doing anything that could offend the other man. Would Sherlock want John to take his hand after John had tried to claw him open the night before? 

After a moment, Sherlock drew his hand away and left the flat. John waited until the thump of his footsteps and the slam of the front door had faded before he leaned his elbows on the tabletop and buried his face in his hands. 

He had been an idiot to come here. He'd known exactly what all his shortcomings were; it wasn't like last night's PTSD-fueled nightmare had been his first. He had nurtured a memory for eighteen months only to find that the reality was nothing like what he remembered. He wasn't a carefree surgeon on his way to an adventure in another country; he was a broken and battered man with few prospects and absolutely nothing to offer Sherlock. 

_'If I get a job, though,'_ John thought desperately, lifting his face from his hands to stare at his finished resume on the laptop's screen. _'If I can get a job and start bringing in money, maybe he'll think I'm worth something. Maybe he'll let me stay.'_

John wasn't a fool; he'd seen how cool Sherlock had been towards him ever since John had struck out at him during his dream the night before. Sherlock had expected to get back the same John who'd left eighteen months before and instead he'd gotten a limping, trembling man that tried to kill him while he was sleeping. 

Sherlock had been the extraordinary one in the relationship from the beginning. John hadn't understood what had attracted Sherlock to him in the first place, but at least when he'd been ordinary Dr. John Watson, he'd also been a functional, whole person. 

John printed off four copies of his resume, clumping into the kitchen to check his reflection in the reflective chrome side of the toaster. He looked as professional as he could, he thought. He'd need to get a suit jacket of some kind, though, if he was going to be doing job interviews. He could use part of his army pension for that, although he'd have to purchase something fairly cheap; no matter what Sherlock said, John was going to put some money towards the rent on the flat. Eventually, he'd be able to pay more. He just had to get hired first. 

John pulled his shoulders back resolutely; he _would_ get hired. He wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. It would be okay. 

* * * * *

It was surprisingly hard to stop someone from saying 'no' to you when they were determined to, John had found. Of the four clinics he had stopped in to, three had told him 'no' immediately. They had not been interested in seeing his resume and would not keep a copy in case they changed their minds. The fourth had at least agreed to take his resume but had said there was not much chance of them calling him. They had enough GPs at the moment, and wouldn't clinic work be awfully dull after being a surgeon and a combat medic? 

John couldn't force himself to take a cab back to the flat; he wanted to delay being forced to see Sherlock - cold and aloof and disinterested in John now that he was damaged - for as long as he could. Walking would take considerably longer than riding in a cab, delaying the reunion. The final clinic he had visited had been nearly fifteen minutes away by cab and the walk back was very slow. John's leg was burning after twenty minutes and absolutely screaming after 45 minutes. 

John finally admitted defeat at the hour mark when he realized he had not covered even half the distance back to Baker Street and that it was getting on towards late afternoon. The tea and egg from breakfast had long since burned away. 

John stopped at a small cafe to buy himself a bag of crisps and a sandwich, sitting down heavily to eat and rest his leg. He didn't want to eat the food at Sherlock's flat; he would only be using up Sherlock's groceries. Until he had a job and could pay for at least some of the shopping, it wasn't right for him to use up Sherlock's things. 

And since no one wanted to hire an invalided army doctor... John found he had lost his appetite. He bundled the rest of his sandwich up in a napkin and shoved it into his jacket pocket with the resumes, crumpling them and not caring. 

He started back on his plodding way towards Baker Street, trying to figure out what to do with himself. He could try clinics further away, but an hour-long commute every morning didn't really appeal to him. Besides, what was to say he'd have any more luck at any other clinics? 

He heard a clatter from down an alley he was passing and glanced over in mild curiosity. There was a homeless man shifting through trash, totally focused on his task. He looked ragged and a little dirty, but not completely decrepit. His clothes were worn but not falling to pieces. He looked like he was managing, all things considered. 

_'I could do that,'_ John thought, pausing to watch the man as he found something in the bin he'd been picking through. He stuffed whatever treasure he'd dug out of the rubbish into a shopping bag hanging from his belt loop and glanced up at John, his expression suspicious. John gave him a quick nod before continuing on and leaving the homeless man to his search. 

Sure, the man hadn't looked like he'd be getting any job offers anytime soon, but surely it wasn't hard to keep your clothes looking tolerable while living hard? Living on the streets couldn't possibly be any worse than humping your way across miles and miles of sand and rock. 

John shook the thought off; was he actually considering becoming a homeless person? Ridiculous. He wasn't destitute; he had his army pension. He still had options for finding a position at a clinic. And hadn't Mrs. Hudson said there was a second bedroom upstairs? 

_'But that wouldn't be fair to Sherlock,'_ he thought, and the realization hit him like a physical punch to his gut, making the air in his lungs burst out of him. _'If you keep living there, he might think he has to take care of you. He might not bother trying to find something better simply because you're there, haunting his flat like the Ghost of Times Past. Is living on the street really so much worse than ruining his life?'_

John stumbled over to the wall of the shop he had been passing, leaning against the bricks and rubbing his palm over his forehead. It was true; if he stayed at the flat, Sherlock would keep trying to make things work. He was stubborn enough to keep trying even when it was obvious he didn't have the same depth of feelings for John that he'd had eighteen months before. If John left, Sherlock would be able to get on with his life as he had been doing while John was in Afghanistan. Sherlock wouldn't miss him; all John had managed to do in the last 24 hours was disrupt Sherlock's life. Hadn't Sherlock been planning to meet with the Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon? John's arrival had thrown that off. And John had beaten him out of a sound sleep the night before and so traumatized him that he'd sat awake the rest of the night on the edge of his bed. 

John had absolutely nothing to offer the brilliant man. He couldn't even bring in a steady paycheque; no one wanted to hire him. No one wanted him around, period. 

Decision made, John hailed a cab; he had been hesitant to get back to 221B Baker Street before, wanting to put off seeing Sherlock's previously interested and happy face turn into a cold mask each time John spoke to him. Now, though, John wanted to beat Sherlock back to the flat. He was already packed except for his pyjama pants and the white undershirt in the hamper in Sherlock's bedroom. He could grab those and be out the door within minutes of entering the flat. Surely he'd only be sleeping on the streets for a few days; he would try some of the clinics farther away. If he wasn't living with Sherlock anymore, he could get a flat or even a bedsit near whatever clinic would hire him. He could stop being a burden on the other man. It was the only way John could think of to tell Sherlock how much he still loved him. 

  
* * * * *

Sherlock exploded into the flat late that evening, nearly vibrating with excitement. He had not only noticed that the married woman in the crime scene photos lacked a wedding band, he had also noticed the scuff marks on the side of her left shoe, indicative of being dragged. He'd been able to convince Lestrade to take him back to the actual crime scene, now weeks old, and had managed to find the woman's wedding band underneath a heavy china cabinet with scuff marks on the floor near it from the woman's shoe. As he had suspected, there was a single large shoeprint in the dust near a large potted plant set beside the china cabinet that matched the print the CSIs had gotten off of a shoe of the woman's flirtatious neighbor. It had been all that was needed to prove that it had not been her husband, a small and physically weak man, who had murdered her, but the self-same neighbor who was always flirting with the woman on her way into and out of her home. 

Lestrade had been impressed and had promised to try and get Sherlock to the actual crime scene sooner next time. Sherlock was bursting with the news, desperate to pour it all out to John and watch the man's face light up, to hear John calling him 'amazing' and 'brilliant.' Things had been rough since John had arrived the day before, and Sherlock felt sure that if he could only remind John how clever he was, the other man would soften to him again. 

The eighteen months that John had been in Afghanistan had been hard on Sherlock. John had written him regularly, long and rambling letters arriving at least once a week if not more often. John had told Sherlock stories of his mates in his company and stories of the strange creatures that lived in the deserts in Afghanistan. John had told Sherlock stories from his childhood, detailing the memories to the point that Sherlock had almost imagined himself there. And John had told Sherlock of his dreams for once the deployment was over: the world-famous consulting detective and his world-famous surgeon partner, solving your case or saving your life, whichever needed doing most. 

Sherlock had kept every single letter in the drawer of his nightstand, taking them out to reread them when he started missing John so much that he could no longer concentrate on The Work or his violin or anything except the hollow feeling in his chest that had always haunted him and which only John had ever been able to fill. 

Sherlock didn't believe in love at first sight; that sort of stuff was for romance novels and chick flicks, not real life. But attraction at first sight was factually based since beauty was merely a construct based on childhood impressions, influences, and role models. John had drawn Sherlock in from the first moment Sherlock looked at him, and when John had been fascinated rather than repelled by Sherlock's mind, Sherlock had started falling. 

He had spent 48 hours learning everything he could about John Watson, solidifying what he already knew after only four hours acquaintance: he could search the world over and he would never find someone who was as good a fit for him as John. 

Sherlock tore his scarf from his neck and threw it at the coat rack before sliding from his Belstaff. He couldn't hear John moving around the flat; had he already gone to bed? It was early, but then, John hadn't slept much the night before. 

Sherlock headed through the flat towards the bedroom, hoping John was awake; he _needed_ to see John's face lighting up as Sherlock explained his deductions and how he'd solved a case that Lestrade had been ready to give up on. 

But John wasn't in the bedroom, and Sherlock began to turn away from the empty room to check if John might be in the bathroom when he paused. He felt something tickling at the back of his mind, something important. Something he was overlooking. He stopped, letting his eyes sweep back over the room again. 

There. The chair next to the wardrobe. But what about it? It was empty. John's case. 

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he spun and rushed from the room, sweeping through the empty kitchen and into the sitting room, his eyes flicking across the piles and stacks that littered the room as he looked for anything out of place. Within seconds, he noticed the piece of computer paper folded on the small table next to the red cloth armchair that he'd picked out of a thrift store six months before because it made him think of John. He lifted the paper and read through it. He recognized the handwriting at once; he had reams of paper covered with that same handwriting, after all. This letter was much briefer than all the ones John had sent from Afghanistan: 

_Sherlock,_

_This isn't going to work. I won't let myself hold you back. You're too beautiful and brilliant for a shattered soldier to chain you down._

_Yours always_  
_John_

Sherlock sank slowly into John's armchair with the letter still gripped tight in his suddenly cold fingers, his heart pounding against his ribs with enough force to make him lightheaded. He didn't notice he was crying until the tears fell onto the paper, smearing the ink as if to erase John's words. The hollowness in his chest was all he could feel and there was no more John Watson to fill it. 


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean, you can't do anything? You practically are the British government - if anyone could do anything, you could." Sherlock would not look over at his older brother. If he looked at Mycroft, he would lose his fragile hold on his temper. At the moment, he was sitting calmly in his black leather armchair, applying rosin to his violin bow, pretending the conversation didn't mean absolutely everything to him.

"I've already explained, Sherlock. If your Dr. Watson left under his own power, he is not a missing person and I cannot help you track him down." Mycroft was standing behind Sherlock, looking down from the window at the foot traffic passing on Baker Street. Sherlock was fairly certain that Mycroft was putting on a pretense of calm as much as Sherlock. Mycroft seemed as if he were completely disinterested in the conversation, but Sherlock had seen the slight quirk of his older brother's eyebrow when Sherlock first asked for Mycroft's help in finding John. Knowing your opponent was simply a matter of paying attention, after all. 

"He _is_ a missing person," Sherlock insisted. His left leg was crossed over his right to further enhance his aura of disinterested self-possession, but his foot gave a small twitch. It was the smallest tell that Sherlock was absolutely screaming inside, and he hoped Mycroft had not seen. He kept his eyes firmly on the bow, rubbing the rosin in smoothly, refusing to look away from his small task. "Perhaps not by the definition the police use, but he is not here, which is where he should be. You have the ability to track him down, but you won't. I have to wonder what your motivation could possibly be. Is it because of your loathing for the common folk that you won't assist me in finding the one I've grown attached to?" 

"Sherlock, I am absolutely _thrilled_ that you've found a proletariat with whom to seek domestic bliss," Mycroft said, turning away from the window and stepping over to the fireplace. Sherlock lowered his bow and rosin block to his lap, turning his head marginally to look up at his older brother. Mycroft actually _did_ look pleased, none of his usual displeasure tells evident in his expression or in the way he stood. "However, I cannot help you track him down. I'm completely wrapped up at the moment with a political overthrow attempt in China, and I'm afraid I cannot spare any of my attention to search for your paramour. Can't you utilize your homeless network?" 

"They're already on the case," Sherlock said, turning away from his brother and fighting to hide the bitterness in his voice. "They've been searching for two weeks. Either he is exceptionally good at vanishing or he's left the city completely." 

Mycroft spread his hands. "Either way, Sherlock, I think it is important than you keep in mind that he left you for his own reasons. I doubt he would be happy with you tracking him down and dragging him back." 

"He left for the _wrong_ reasons," Sherlock snapped, finally losing hold of his temper. "He is trying to free me to live the life I want but he doesn't realize that the only life I _could_ want would include him by my side." 

Mycroft's face twisted in sympathy but he merely shook his head. "As I have told you many times before, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage." 

Sherlock turned back to his bow, dragging it slowly and methodically over the rosin block. He would not respond. After a moment of silence, Mycroft sighed and headed for the sitting room door. He pulled it open and then paused at the threshold. He turned his head back to stare at his younger brother and said, "It seems obvious that your attachment to Dr. Watson has not given you any benefits in the past. You've spent eighteen months dreaming of a person who, it seems, does not exist anymore. Perhaps it is time to stop dreaming." 

Mycroft pulled the door shut behind him and Sherlock threw both the block of rosin and his bow down on the floor, thrusting his hands into his hair and ruffling it furiously. He froze suddenly as something in his mind _clicked_ and he stared blankly over at John's chair. 

Maybe he was clinging to a dream. He had spent 48 hours learning every detail of John Watson that he could and then had eighteen months of letters full of John's rambling and dreams. The man that had shown up on his doorstep two weeks before had been different from the John Watson he had gotten to know. He had been damaged and not just physically; something inside John Watson had looked at Sherlock Holmes and then back at John Watson and had found the scales unbalanced in Sherlock's favor, and the reality was that the scales had _always_ been tipped in John's favor. Even with his limp - obviously psychosomatic, although Sherlock was still working on how to break that bit of information to John - and the healing wound in his shoulder and the intermittent tremor in his right hand, the sum of John Watson would always be greater than Sherlock. 

Sherlock shoved himself out of his chair, pacing the sitting room furiously as he thought. He had been cautious with John when he returned because he had seen how John held himself: tight and guarded as if he expected an attack at any moment. He had surmised that it meant John didn't want to be touched. 

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered. Looking back over the 24 hours he had with John after the man returned, it became embarrassingly obvious that what John had needed was to be _touched_. He treated himself like - how had he phrased it? 'A broken toy soldier.' And Sherlock had taken his cues from John, treating the other man cautiously when what John really needed was to be shown that there was nothing 'broken' about him. 

The sound of the doorbell intruded on Sherlock's thoughts and he lunged toward the small remote receiver box tucked into the corner of the sitting room ceiling near the sofa. He pulled it free from the Blu-Tak and thrust the receiver box underneath one of the sofa cushions to muffle the sound. 

But he could hear Mrs. Hudson's careful footsteps coming up the stairs; he recognized the slight hesitation on every other step that meant her hip was hurting her today. That meant that whoever was at the door was looking for him. Sherlock hoped it wasn't a client; he was in no mood to help anyone else solve their problems when he couldn't even solve his own. 

There was a quick tap at the door and Mrs. Hudson pushed it open, calling out, "Ooo hoo!" as she poked her head into the flat. "Sherlock, there's a young lady downstairs to see you -" 

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. I am not interested in taking on any clients at the moment." 

"Oh, she's not a client, dear. I doubt she has a cent to her name. She looks like she's been living on the streets." 

Sherlock was moving at once, tearing his Belstaff and scarf from the coat rack beside the sitting room door as he pushed past Mrs. Hudson on the landing and rushed down the stairs. He had his Belstaff on and was tying his scarf as he pulled open the front door, revealing a young woman with stringy brown hair and rough-looking clothes waiting on the pavement outside the flat. 

"I've found him," she said. "Only he hasn't been sleeping in any of the usual places; that's why it took so long. I just happened to see him two nights ago when I was staying in an abandoned house off Queens Road in Peckham. I wasn't sure it was him, on account of it being so dark once I got there and found a place to sleep, and I thought maybe I'd try to get closer the next night except I didn't make it back to that house that night. But I was back again last night and I made sure that it's definitely him. Looks just like the photos you gave out." 

"Show me," Sherlock said, pulling his gloves on and moving past the girl to hail a cab. 

Sherlock could hardly sit still for the half-hour ride. The homeless girl hadn't given him a name and hadn't seemed interested in talking once they were in the cab, choosing instead to lean her temple against the door frame and stare out the window. That suited Sherlock fine, though; he didn't feel as if he had a single polite word in his entire body. He only wanted to see John. 

By the time the girl indicated that they had arrived, the late afternoon was well on its way towards early evening. Sherlock paid the cabbie and leaped out almost before the cab had come to a complete stop, practically dancing on the pavement in his impatience while he waited for the young woman to climb out of the cab after him. 

"It's this way," she said, gesturing. "Past The Children's Society there. You have to go over the fence and it's back past the empty lot." 

"Would anyone be there now?" Sherlock demanded. 

"Yeah, some people like to get there early. You can get the best spots that way," the girl said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans and shuffling her runners against the pavement. "Look, now that I'm back, I need to meet my boyfriend." 

"Of course," Sherlock said, digging for the promised reward in his pocket. He pressed the cash at the girl. She barely had it in her hands before Sherlock was rushing away, jumping over the short fence and into the empty, overgrown lot, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. 

The building the girl had indicated had layers of graffiti on it, the new messages obscuring the old and all of it illegible in the gathering dusk. Sherlock picked his way past broken bottles, crushed ends of cigarettes, and a few discarded needles, unaffected by the squalor. He had spent months of his life living in conditions just as rough as this. He'd pulled himself out of it through sheer determination, and he was willing to do the same for John if that was what it came to. 

He found a loose spot in the plywood nailed over the back entrance to the building and carefully pushed his way in, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the abandoned house. He could make out a couple of people in the room staring at him in the gloom. 

"John?" Sherlock said, keeping his voice low. No sense in shouting and panicking the people squatting in the house that night. When no one replied, he moved deeper into the house, passing the two people huddled together against one wall. 

It was still early enough that the majority of the house was empty. It wasn't until Sherlock got to the upstairs bath that he found another squatter, and this one was better equipped than the two downstairs; the low light of a small Coleman's lantern shone into the hall from the crack underneath the closed door. Sherlock tried the door handle and found it was locked. 

"Occupied and not interested," a familiar voice called from inside the bathroom, and something tight inside Sherlock's chest loosened slightly. 

"John. Open the door; I want to talk." 

There was a moment's started silence and then the sound of someone limping quickly to the bathroom door. Something scraped heavily over the tile and then the thumb latch on the handle clicked and John pulled open the bathroom door. 

He was somewhat silhouetted by the dim light of the lantern behind him, but Sherlock could see enough to make out the startled expression on the shorter man's face. 

"How... how the hell did you find me?" John asked, the words a stunned whisper. 

"Not important at the moment," Sherlock said, stepping closer to the threshold, close enough that he could see that John hadn't shaved in a day or two although his clothes still looked clean and well cared for. "May I come in?" 

John looked surprised, glancing behind him at the small washroom. He gave a quick, mirthless laugh and pulled the door open a bit more, gesturing Sherlock in. "Sure, yeah, my home is yours, I guess." 

Sherlock stepped into the tiny room, stopping just past John to take it in. John's case and cane were leaned against a porcelain tub that had a couple of blankets tossed in it, obviously the place John had been sleeping. A Coleman lantern was hanging from the taps. There was a hole in the floor where the toilet had once been next to half of a porcelain sink. The other half lay in shattered pieces that someone had mostly pushed into a pile in one corner. 

John shut and locked the door again while Sherlock was taking in the other man's current accommodations. That done, he shoved the toilet that had once covered the hole in the floor against the door. With a sigh, he turned to look at Sherlock. 

"You look well," John said and then grimaced faintly. "How did you find me, Sherlock?" 

"I have eyes and ears all over the city. I pay the homeless for information, and when I let my Homeless Network know I was looking for you, they tracked you down." 

"Sherlock, why on earth would you be looking for me?" John asked, and even in the dim light Sherlock could see the self-loathing on John's face. 

Sherlock took a breath and then stepped forward, cupping John's face in his gloved hands and lowering his mouth to John's in a desperate kiss. He felt John give a shudder before he responded with enthusiasm, bringing his hands up to slide his fingers into Sherlock's curls and hold Sherlock steady as John pressed forward into the kiss. The kiss went from desperate to almost painful as the two men pressed against each other, both overwhelmed with eighteen months of unsatisfied desires. 

John gripped at Sherlock's hair, tugging gently, and Sherlock couldn't stop the low moan from spilling from his mouth into John's. Sherlock's back collided against one wall of the bathroom as John rose onto his toes to give himself better access to Sherlock, his tongue flicking into Sherlock's open mouth to tease against Sherlock's. 

Sherlock slid his hands from John's jaw down to his shoulders, traveling slowly down John's chest to twist his hands into the fabric of his jumper, pulling John's body to his. He felt completely out of control, desperate to have John against him. 

But John broke the kiss, stumbling back to the opposite wall, his shoes slipping in a few lose shards of porcelain from the broken sink. The jumper slid from Sherlock's grip and his hands fell to his sides as he stared across the dim, grotty bathroom at John as he pressed himself against the opposite wall, panting and staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. 

"Don't," John said, his voice hoarse. "I can't... you cannot do this. This... us... it's a mistake." 

"You leaving was a mistake," Sherlock said, fighting against the pain swelling in his chest. Now was not the time to let emotion overwhelm him. If ever he needed to be logical, _this_ was the moment. 

"No, my leaving was the right thing to do. It was the... honorable thing to do. I cannot destroy your life the way I've destroyed my own." 

"How can you possibly know that you'll destroy my life? What if we _better_ each other? 

"Sherlock," John said, his voice sad as he stared at the other man, "how could I ever better you?" 

"Your opinion of me is entirely too high, John," Sherlock said, straightening up and staring directly into John's eyes. "I have been told by scores of people who interact with me with any regularity that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet." 

John's expression had grown hard as Sherlock spoke and he limped forward a step, his eyebrows pulled low over his eyes. "Who? Who's said that to you? Because they're lying to you and I won't have you believing... they're just jealous. That's probably - it's jealousy. Don't believe a single word of it." 

A faint smile touched Sherlock's lips and he stepped away from the wall, closing the distance between himself and John, leaving only bare inches between them as he stared down into John's furiously protective expression. "You are the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing." 

John's anger had melted into surprise. He opened his mouth and then shut it, obviously at a loss for a response. 

"John, I am a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your affection. It is hardly surprising that when you came back to me after your deployment, I didn't know how show you how relieved I was to have you back in any capacity. You think you're broken by what has happened to you, but I have found you to be tempered by your trial by fire. You have come through stronger than you were when you left eighteen months ago. I still want you at my side. Although we can no longer aspire to your dream of the 'world-famous consulting detective and his world-famous surgeon partner,' we could amend that to the consulting detective and his partner. You could join me in solving cases, chasing down the criminals, and saving lives. Please, John, come back with me." Sherlock brought his hands up slowly, threading his gloved fingers through John's. The other man did not pull away and Sherlock tightened his grip slightly, holding on to John's hands like a man adrift in the ocean would cling to a lifesaver. 

John lowered his head, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's chest. He was silent except for his harsh breaths, each inhalation loud in the small room. He was struggling with something, and Sherlock had no idea what he could say to make it easier on John. He stood still, staring down at the back of John's head and holding tight to John's fingers, afraid to even take a breath. 

Finally, though, John stepped back, pulling his hands free of Sherlock's. He kept his head down although he was shaking it faintly. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. "Please, just go." 

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, breathing shakily around the crushing pain that was blossoming outward from his chest. He scored his teeth across his bottom lip, trying to think of something to say, but he had said it all. Finally, he turned and pushed the toilet across the floor, unlatching the door and pulling it open. Just before he stepped back into the dark hallway of the abandoned house, he glanced back at John who still stood unmoving, his head lowered and his breaths labored. 

"You will always have a home at 221B, as long as I am living there. If you ever need any help, even just somewhere safe to sleep for a night, I will not hesitate to give it to you." 

Sherlock stepped out of the washroom, pulling the door shut behind him and cutting off the sight of John Watson. Outside of the tiny room, there was no light. Sherlock made his way slowly out of the house to hail a cab. 

  
* * * * *

It took two days for John to realize that he was a complete fool. Once Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, John had turned off his lantern and tried to settle into the bathtub to sleep, but it was impossible. He still had the taste of Sherlock's on his lips and every time he tried to shut his eyes, he could feel the softness of Sherlock's curls under his hands. 

He had thought Sherlock had lost interest in him when he had come back damaged, but Sherlock had tracked him halfway across London and had kissed him like the answers to all his questions lay within John. 

John had to wonder at what point was it no longer that he was trying to spare Sherlock but that he was trying to punish himself? He had spent two weeks taking his resume to every clinic he could find and none of them had been interested. He was not going to find a clinic job any time soon; his military pension was barely enough for a bedsit, but even if he could afford much nicer accommodations, John had to admit that nothing could appeal as much as living with Sherlock. Even if he did find a clinic to hire him, he'd have to travel so far every day from Baker Street as to make it hardly worth the effort. Besides, after two weeks of living on the streets, most of the clinics assumed he was a patient in need of help rather than a trained doctor seeking a job. 

The first day after Sherlock's visit, John had spent the entire day in Russell Square Gardens with his case beneath the bench he sat on and his cane leaning against his leg, thinking. He had watched the ebb and flow of the crowds and considered every word that Sherlock had said to him, trying to understand why Sherlock would want him when he had absolutely nothing to offer the other man. 

He returned to the abandoned house that night and slept in the washroom, waking from dreams of Sherlock repeatedly throughout the night. 

The second day, he had decided to walk for as long as his leg could take, trying to remind himself of why he was nothing but a time bomb that would destroy Sherlock's life. After an hour, though, he realized that he was slowly making his way back towards the city of Westminster where Baker Street was located. 

He leaned back against the bricks of the cafe he had been passing, watching the traffic. He just needed to look at the facts: he was damaged and had always been, at best, an average man. And yet Sherlock, utterly brilliant and beautiful, had tracked him down and come to him, obviously with the hope of luring him back. Would Sherlock, who seemed to see everything and was clever enough that New Scotland Yard came to him for help, be stupid enough to pursue someone if they truly had no value? 

At what point was it no longer that he was trying to spare Sherlock but that he was trying to punish himself? 

John hailed a cab, decision made. He opened his case once he had given the cabbie Sherlock's address, pulling out the three letters Sherlock had written him while he had been in Afghanistan. He reread the words, even though he knew them by heart, and realized that while he had assumed that the words no longer had meaning after he'd been invalided home, Sherlock had never stopped meaning them. 

_'Come back to me.'_

John half expected to find Sherlock rushing from the flat again once he finally arrived, but Baker Street was calm and almost idyllic in the watery afternoon sunlight. He rang the bell and waited, surprised when it was Mrs. Hudson who answered. 

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" she said, eyes going wide in surprise as she took him in. 

"Mrs. Hudson," he said, giving her a quick nod. "I'm here to see Sherlock." 

"He's upstairs," Mrs. Hudson said, stepping back to let John by. As he stepped into the entryway, he could hear the sound of violin music drifting down from 221B. He glanced over at Mrs. Hudson and she made a shooing gesture with her hands. "He's been playing for almost two days. You won't be interrupting anything important." 

John transferred his cane to the same hand that held the handle of his case, taking a firm grip on the banister, and climbed up the stairs. His leg ached, but he ignored it. He was not going to let anything stop him now that he'd made up his mind. 

He hesitated on the landing outside the flat for a moment and then raised his hand to knock lightly on the door. The violin continued for a few more seconds and then cut off abruptly. After a moment, the door was pulled open and Sherlock glared out at John, his mouth opening wide to shout something. The words died as he took in John waiting on the landing, and the two men stood in silence, staring at one another for several long moments before John finally cleared his throat and said, "I'd love a bath." 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down for a moment before his face became carefully neutral. He stepped back to let John in, murmuring, "I trust you remember where it is?" 

"I do, yeah," John said, and limped past Sherlock. 

Washed, freshly shaven, and dressed in clean clothes, John felt like he might just be able to handle what would probably be the hardest apology of his life. 

The violin had started back up almost as soon as he'd turned on the taps and had continued throughout his shower. As he made his slow way through the kitchen and into the sitting room, he realized that he recognized the music: it was the same song Sherlock had played the first night John had spent with him. 

Sherlock was facing the windows that looked out over Baker Street, his back to John as the other man made him way into the sitting room. John hesitated, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock's playing, his eyes drifting around the room. He recognized his own handwriting on a piece of paper and stepped over to the small table next to the black leather armchair Sherlock favored, lifting the paper from a small pile of other sheets and reading. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'll open with another weather update: still hot. I never thought I'd hate drinking tea, but a hot cuppa when it's got to be over 46° doesn't really appeal._

_How's the weather back home? Are you moved into the new flat yet? I wish you could describe it to me, but I suppose I'll see it soon enough. Eight more months on this deployment and then I can come home and bore you with all the same stories I've already written out for you._

John lowered the sheet of paper, his throat tight. He knew these words. He'd written them the month before he'd been shot. A glance at the table showed that nearly all his letters to Sherlock were there, stacked up as if Sherlock had been rereading them. 

John set the sheet of paper back on the stack, clearing his throat. Sherlock stopped mid-note, setting both his violin and bow down on the sitting room table next to him. 

"You'll be going now, I suppose?" Sherlock said, still staring out the window. 

"No," John said, his voice soft as he moved slowly up behind Sherlock. He slid his left arm around Sherlock's waist, resting his forehead against the other man's shoulder. "I've come back to you." 

Sherlock stiffened, holding still for a moment before he turned slowly, careful not to knock John's arm away. John leaned his head back to look up at Sherlock, taking in the cautious expression on the other man's face. 

"Just to clarify," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed, "you mean that you are coming back to 221B... to stay?" 

"For as long as you'll have me," John said, his heart in his throat. "I'm sorry for... all of it. Everything. Leaving and not coming back when you came after me and -" 

John broke off because Sherlock's careful, guarded expression was falling apart. His eyes had gone blank and it was as if something shattered in them, like glass that had been full of hairline cracks finally giving under some great pressure. 

"What?" Sherlock whispered, the word the barest breath of sound. 

"I was an idiot. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. I thought I could be selfless and love you enough to leave, but now I'm finding that what I need is to love you enough to stay, even when I think I can't possibly be good enough for you." 

The shattered look on Sherlock's face was twisting into a hybrid of pain and rapture as he stared at John, taking in the other man's words. Slowly, Sherlock's raised his arms to slide around John's shoulders, holding on loosely. "You're saying that..." 

"I love you. And I've come back to you." 

Sherlock seemed to fold in on himself, making a choked, desperate noise as he pressed his face into John's shoulder, his arms around John tightening painfully. John dropped his cane, bringing his other arm up to wrap it tightly around Sherlock, blinking back tears as he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's curls. The other man was silent but John could feel him shaking. After a moment, Sherlock lifted his head from John's shoulder, standing up straight again. His cheeks were dry but his eyes were red and he sniffled before he could speak. 

"I'm sorry I didn't realize that I was driving you away," Sherlock said in a hoarse voice. "I didn't know what it was that you needed from me, and I did everything wrong." 

"Stop it," John said, his voice tight with the tears he was holding back. Sherlock was blaming _himself_ for the mess that _John_ had caused, and John couldn't allow that. "Stop that. None of this is your fault. None of it. I won't let you take that onto yourself. This is my mistake and I plan to spend the rest of our lives trying to make it up to you." 

John felt completely overwhelmed by the second chance he was being given, and he was going to do everything he could to insure that Sherlock did not regret giving it to him. He pressed up on his toes and captured Sherlock's mouth with his own, bringing his hands up to grip Sherlock's shoulders. After a startled pause, Sherlock began to kiss back eagerly, holding nothing back. His arms around John tightened slightly, his hands spreading across the smoothness of John's button-up shirt. 

John pressed hard into Sherlock, knocking the other man back into the wall beside the window. The taste of Sherlock's mouth was everything John had wanted for eighteen hard months, and he indulged in it greedily, bringing his hands up to hold the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers sliding through Sherlock's curls. 

He broke the kiss and Sherlock made a soft noise of protest which quickly turned into an appreciative moan as John began nibbling his way across Sherlock's jaw and down the side of his neck. Sherlock leaned his head to one side, giving John better access, sliding his hands slowly down the back of John's shirt until his hands were resting lightly against John's arse. John bit gently at Sherlock's pulse point and Sherlock responded by tightening his hands on John's arse, pulling the other man's hips into his own. 

John brought his hands to the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, flicking them free quickly and trailing his tongue down each inch of exposed skin. Sherlock's hands slid slowly up John's back as the man lowered himself, following the line of opened buttons. Finally, he reached the point where Sherlock's shirt was tucked into his trousers and he had to tug it free to reach the last two buttons. He ran the tip of his tongue along the top edge of Sherlock's trousers as soon as the last two buttons were freed, making Sherlock blow out a sharp breath. He lowered his face to nuzzle into the fly of the trousers, feeling Sherlock's erection clearly through the material and enjoying the soft, high noises Sherlock made as he pressed a kiss against the straining prick. 

He stood and brought his hands to Sherlock's waist, holding tightly as he dipped his head to taste Sherlock's nipples, sucking until Sherlock began to moan, his mouth fallen open and his head leaning weakly back against the wall. 

"Please tell me you have condoms and lube," John whispered against the skin of Sherlock's chest. He would be okay with anything at this point, honestly, even a repeat of their first night together, but he felt a swell of relief when Sherlock answered in the affirmative. 

"In the bedroom," Sherlock said, breathing hard as he looked down at John. "I bought them the day after you came home." 

John smiled faintly, pushing up on his toes to bite the side of Sherlock's neck gently. "So sure that I'm going to put out, Mr. Holmes?" 

Sherlock groaned softly and reached down to grab hold of John's shirt, pulling it from his trousers with a quick jerk. "Absolutely positive of it," he said, beginning to undo the buttons on John's shirt with dexterity. "Increased respiration, dilated pupils... and an absolutely incredible erection." Sherlock palmed the erection in question, stroking it firmly through John's trousers, making John's eyes slide shut as sensation temporarily overwhelmed him. 

"All right, yeah, that's all pretty convincing evidence," John agreed, his voice shaking slightly as his hips thrust forward without him thinking to do so, pressing his prick more firmly into Sherlock's palm. "And you are the famous consulting detective; I'd hate to have you be wrong. We should probably go into the bedroom now." 

"Now?" Sherlock asked, still stroking John through his trousers. "Why?" 

"Because if you keep doing that, I'm going to come in my pants and ruin the night," John admitted through gritted teeth. 

Sherlock gave a startled laugh and drew his hand away from John's prick to thread his fingers through John's, tugging him through the sitting room. 

They got diverted from their path to the bed while passing through the kitchen, Sherlock pressing John up against the front of the refrigerator to suck a red mark onto the side of his neck while John writhed against him. 

They resumed their path down the short hall to the bedroom, shedding their shirts on the floor as they stroked their hands over each other, trying to touch every inch of bared skin, kissing each other with increasing intensity as they stumbled into the closed bedroom door. Sherlock fumbled with the knob for a few seconds, only half focusing on the task of opening the door while John's tongue was teasing against his. When he finally got it open, they tumbled into the bedroom clumsily, crashing into the side of the wardrobe. But while Sherlock had been fumbling with the doorknob, John had been undoing the button on Sherlock's trousers and as they came to a rough stop against the wardrobe, John slid one hand into Sherlock's trousers to stroke his clever fingers against Sherlock's prick and the brief pain of running into the wardrobe slid from Sherlock mind completely in a wave of pleasure. 

When John finally took his hand away, Sherlock's mouth was half-opened and he was panting weakly. He was absolutely aching. 

They moved towards the bed, pausing for a moment at the edge to slide off the last pieces of their clothes, trying to kiss while balancing on one foot to get socks off and eventually tumbling onto the bed together. Things slowed down suddenly once they landed on the bed. They lay side by side facing each other, John slowly stroking one hand down the ridges of Sherlock's ribs to the dip of his waist and up onto his hip before reversing the path back up to his ribs again. Sherlock's legs were tangled with John's and he was slowly stroking his thumb over John's lower lip, staring into the other man's face with open adoration. 

John cleared his throat softly, his eyes sliding away from Sherlock's for a moment. "I want to have sex, but... I don't think I can be the one to..." John stopped, pain sweeping across his face. "I don't feel like..." 

"You want me to be the one to penetrate this time," Sherlock clarified. "You need me to be in control." 

"Yes," John said, seeming to sag with relief. "Yes, exactly." 

Sherlock scooted closer, his erection brushing against John's at the same moment that he pressed his lips to John's, the simultaneous sensations making John shiver. "Then I will take care of you, John." 

Sherlock rolled away from John for a moment to remove a bottle of lube, a flannel, and a condom from the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed. He dropped them onto his pillow and slid over to John, gently nudging John to roll onto his left side as he pressed soft kisses across John's bare shoulder, murmuring, "It's been awhile since we've done this. We're going to go very slow, and you will tell me if anything hurts." 

"Right," John said, taking a deep breath and bringing his legs up towards his stomach. He felt Sherlock shifting on the bed behind him, trailing a slow line of kisses down John's side and to his hip, pausing there to bite gently at John's hipbone until John squirmed. 

Sherlock squeezed lube onto his fingers, coating the index finger thoroughly before adding another dollop for good measure. Sherlock began to gently apply the lube, his fingers stroking several times before a single fingertip eased past the tight ring of muscles, slowly pushing into John. 

"Two," John said, his voice tight with eagerness. 

"It's been eighteen months," Sherlock began, but John gave a soft snort. 

"Like I haven't done anything to myself in the last eighteen months? Just because I couldn't have you doesn't mean I stopped _thinking_ about you." 

Sherlock paused and then pulled his finger out. John heard him applying another dollop of lube and then Sherlock was pressing two fingers into him, stretching him gently. John gave a soft moan, turning his head slightly to press his face into his pillow to muffle the sound. 

"No, I want to hear," Sherlock said, sliding his fingers slowly deeper into the tight heat of John. "Every single sound." 

John turned his head to look over his shoulder, meeting Sherlock's heavy-lidded eyes. There was a faint flush creeping up Sherlock's face as he worked his fingers slowly back out of John. When he began to slide them in again, John voiced another breathless moan and Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, his cheeks flushing darker at the sound. 

The slow slide in and out continued for several more minutes until John began to relax into it, pleasure overwhelming discomfort. Sherlock scissored his fingers, pressing against the tight muscles, and John let out a rapid fire _ah-ah-ah_ of enjoyment, body undulating. 

Sherlock pulled his fingers free, wiping them off on the flannel before he reached for the condom. John twisted slightly, watching with hungry eyes as Sherlock slowly rolled the condom down over his cock. 

Sherlock shifted down, spooning against John's back and feathering kisses over the back of John's neck and across his shoulder. His arm slid around John's chest, tweaking at John's nipples until John pressed his arse back into Sherlock's cock, his voice hoarse as he said, "Jesus, would you just _do it!_ " 

Sherlock reached down to take hold of his own cock, positioning himself. The feel of the head of it pressing against the tight ring of his lubed hole made John sigh softly, and then Sherlock was pressing in, the pressure just this side of pain. John forced himself to relax, blowing out his breath as he felt the head slide into him. Sherlock stopped there, bringing his hand back up to stroke gently across John's stomach and down, wrapping his fingers firmly around John's still-achingly-hard erection. 

Sherlock began to thrust forward very gently, sliding in by tiny increments. With each small thrust, Sherlock pumped his fist on John's cock to ease the discomfort of being filled. Once he was fully seated within John, his pelvis pressed tight against John's arse, he let go of John's cock, sliding his hand to the other man's hip to grip it. 

He leaned his face close, sliding the tip of his tongue along the edge of John's ear. "Okay?" he asked, his breath tickling against John's ear. 

"God, yes," John said. "Fantastic. I can't believe I did without this for eighteen months." 

Sherlock chuckled softly before nibbling at John's earlobe. As his teeth closed on the bit of flesh, he slowly pulled his hips back, drawing his cock halfway out of John. He pressed back in just as slowly, bringing his face down to rest in the crook of John's neck. He began to pick up speed, falling into a rhythm. His hand gripped John's hip tightly, holding him in place. 

John reached down to wrap his hand around his own cock, stroking in time to Sherlock's thrusts. Sherlock's breath puffed over his neck, the other man nearly panting as he fucked into John's body. 

"God, yes, please," John whispered, feeling the beginning of his orgasm forming like a pool of heat low in his belly. "Sherlock, faster!" 

Sherlock made a sound low in his throat that almost sounded like a growl and then he was fucking into John as quickly as he could manage, the hand on John's hip squeezing almost painfully hard. He could hear the catch in Sherlock's breathing that meant the other man was getting close to his own orgasm; it was lovely to hear it again and to know that he was the one causing it. 

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice desperate. "John, I... I think I'm..." 

"Yes," John groaned, knowing what Sherlock was trying to say. "Do it." 

Sherlock thrust into John once more and then John could feel the other man shuddering against his back as he came in quick, fluttering bursts of heat deep inside John's body. He whispered John's name in a litany, pressing his face into John's hair. 

A few more quick pumps of his fist on his own cock and John went taut as he came, crying out. "Ah, God, Sherlock!" 

As the orgasm faded to tingles, John realized that he was crying. He had no idea when the tears had started, but they were coursing down his face now, his breath coming in frantic gasps as he wept. 

Sherlock seemed to become aware of it at the same time as John, pushing up onto his elbow. "John? What... did I hurt you? What's happened?" 

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine," John insisted, his voice wobbly. He turned his head to wipe his face savagely against his pillow but the tears kept coming. "I don't understand why I'm doing this. This is so stupid." 

Sherlock brought his hand up from John's hip, wrapping his arm around the other man's chest as he dropped soft kisses across John's shoulder and upper arm. "Your physical release has triggered an emotional release. You can cry; I'm not going anywhere." 

A sob choked it's way out of John and Sherlock's hand stroked his chest soothingly, his movements languid and soft. John cried and Sherlock lay behind him, pressing occasional kisses to his shoulder. 

The tears gradually dwindled to nothing and John brought his hand up to wipe his face. He hadn't yet touched his face when he realized his hand was covered in his own come and he made a soft noise of displeasure. 

"Hmm?" Sherlock rumbled from behind him. 

"My face is a mess but my hand is kind of..." John trailed off, holding his hand up enough for Sherlock to see. 

"Ah," Sherlock said, rolling away. He had softened enough to fall from John's body at some point during the crying jag, and John hadn't even noticed. John heard Sherlock stripping the used condom off and the sound of the nightstand drawer sliding open. Sherlock rolled back a minute later with a fresh flannel and John cleaned his hand off gratefully. 

He turned to face Sherlock, wiping his wet cheeks with the heels of his hands. "Sorry about that," he said, throwing one leg over Sherlock's hip. 

"You don't need to apologize to me," Sherlock said, cuddling closer and kicking at the bedsheets, finally managing to get them up enough that he could grab them and pull them the rest of the way over himself and John. The warmth of the blankets combined with the exhaustion that followed an orgasm made John feel suddenly sleepy and he yawned. "You're here. You're staying. Nothing else could possibly matter to me right now." 

John felt a smile spreading over his face and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone and shuffling around to get comfortable. "Yeah. Not going anywhere again. You're stuck with me." 

"Good," Sherlock murmured. "That's what I've wanted since the beginning anyway. Glad you finally picked up on it." 

"We can't all be super geniuses," John mumbled, and Sherlock's chuckle followed him into sleep. 


	4. Epilogue

  
_Three Months Later_  


John stumbled into the flat after Sherlock, panting after running across what felt like half of London. 

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John said, leaning against the wall. Sherlock was breathing just as hard as him and he joined John against the wall, their shoulders and arms pressing as they both fought to catch their breaths. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." 

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock said and John burst into helpless giggles. God, he loved this absurd man. Obviously, Sherlock felt the same; he didn't take just anyone out on cases with him, after all, even if the case turned out to be nothing more than chasing after a cab that didn't actually hold the person they were after. 

"That wasn't just me," John pointed out and Sherlock chuckled softly. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" 

Sherlock waved one hand dismissively, growing serious. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway." 

"So, what _were_ we doing there?" 

"Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point," Sherlock said, turning to look at John. 

"What point?" 

Sherlock leaned over, pressing a soft kiss against John's temple. "You." 

John smiled faintly, closing his eyes at the feel of Sherlock's lips tickling against his hair. He was drawn from his reverie by the sound of someone knocking at the front door. He glanced up at Sherlock, noting the satisfied smile on the man's face, before turning and walking to the front door. 

Angelo, the owner of the restaurant they'd just been having dinner at not an thirty minutes before, stood on the front step. "Sherlock texted me," the man said by way of explanation. He held up John's cane. "He said you forgot this." 

John felt a shock run through him. His leg wasn't hurting; it hadn't been since they had taken off from the restaurant after the cab. He had run across London, had been jumping from rooftop to rooftop, and his leg hadn't even twinged. "Ah," John said, reaching out to take the cane. "Er, thank you. Thank you." 

He shut the door and turned back to Sherlock, a slow smile spreading across his face as he saw the self-satisfied look on Sherlock's face. "That's a hell of a way to prove a point." 

"I told you it was psychosomatic," Sherlock said as John leaned the cane against the wall, stepping up close. 

"You're always right, aren't you?" John said, but the words sounded flirtatious rather than accusatory. 

"Usually," Sherlock agreed. 

"Why don't you just shut up and kiss me?" John asked, raising up on his toes. And Sherlock did.

**\- end -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Thank you so much to Tumblr user martinfreethebooty for the fantastic prompt. This story would not exist without her genius to get the muse going.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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